Deadfall

by L. Douglas Hogan

  Thirteen

  OPPORTUNITY & INTEL

  Russian Garrison

  East of Pontybridge

  South Carolina

  Sergeant Tolstobrov Pavlovich was sitting at a desk in the office space of what used to be a manufacturing warehouse. The walls were bare and the whole place looked as if it had been shut down before it was ever used. Several maps were spread out over the length of his desk. They outlined the locations of every FEMA camp on the east coast. He was studying them diligently and outlining routes from location to location. Just outside his office, several rooms were filled with food, water, blankets, and other necessities, each stamped Property of Federal Emergency Management Agency.

  “Sergeant,” Todorov interrupted, cracking the door and sticking his head into his sergeant’s office.

  “Come in, comrade,” Pavlovich replied. “Tell me, have you secured our latest acquisitions?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, but I come with more urgent news.”

  “Let me guess – you acquired more than previously expected?”

  “I’m afraid my report is just the opposite.”

  Pavlovich stood up. “What has happened?”

  “Sergeant, a unit of US soldiers have attacked a small troop of our comrades just north of us.”

  “Tell me, Junior Sergeant, did we take the day?”

  “It didn’t sound good, Sergeant. The reports were that they were overrun and losing the fight. The communications stopped and we haven’t heard anything since.”

  Pavlovich’s face turned beat red.

  “Should I send a scout to ascertain the loss?”

  Anger boiled up from deep within Pavlovich’s heart. Todorov knew he was about to erupt. “Give me a moment, Junior Sergeant.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Todorov stepped just outside Pavlovich’s office. Once the door was closed, Pavlovich let out a yell and very aggressively swiped his arm over his desk, cleansing it of all the maps, pencils, and markers. When that was done, his anger yet to be abated, he grabbed the front edge of his desk and toppled it over. “Argh,” he yelled again, this time pulling his pistol out of its holster. Looking around for something to shoot, he saw nothing. His ears and face were red with hatred. He bowed his head to regain his composure. He holstered his pistol and opened the door of his office, yelling, “Junior sergeant up!”

  Todorov came a-running. “Yes, Sergeant Pavlovich?”

  “Form the troop and leave two sentries with our spoils. We’re going to fall upon the Americans responsible for the blood of our comrades – and when we’re done, we’ll overcompensate them, in kind.”

  Todorov had seen this side of Pavlovich before. Most recently in North Carolina, when he took the FEMA camp in Waynesville. Those Americans didn’t surrender, and that enraged Pavlovich. His overzealous Russian patriotism cried for more than a win. His hunger for control over the Americans cried for decimation. He wanted them to be utterly and hopelessly submissive and dependent upon him. If not, then eradication was the only alternative.

  His junior sergeant nodded to him, and he left to call the men together.

  Just Outside the Russian Garrison

  Darrick yawned.

  He and Marcus spent the entire night watching the Russian movements and documenting their patrol times and changing of the guard. If they were going to make a move, they needed it to be timed right. He knew Marcus had been awake all night, as well. Every thirty minutes Marcus would key the mic on the radio and send a split second of white noise to Darrick’s ears, letting him know he was still okay. Darrick’s eyes were heavy and his tummy was rumbling for sustenance.

  This mission’s important. Hang in there, Darrick. This is all for Tonya.

  Darrick grabbed the only pair of binoculars he and Marcus had between them and peered through them. “Man, I hope Marcus has a good position or a good pair of eyes,” he bantered in his loneliness.

  “What do we have here?” he asked himself. A large number of Russians were gathering in a formation. He’d seen this in his own time in military service. It looked like they were staging to deploy.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  The Russians were forming up in columns and rows, with their vehicles forming a ready-to-deploy convoy to their rear. A medium-built Russian stood in front of them and appeared to be giving them a hoorah speech. This carried on for about five minutes before they broke up and filled the vehicles. It was obvious now that the Russians were leaving the area.

  Darrick turned the binoculars in the direction of four guard towers that he didn’t know were there the previous night. The light of day outlined two of them against the canopy of trees. The front two stood out like a sore thumb against the brilliant horizon. All four towers had guards in them, making it difficult to make a move without being seen. Darrick turned his attention to the vehicles that were deploying, troop carriers and a couple of BMP-1 armored personnel carriers.

  “I just pooped a little,” Darrick said, a little intimidated at the anti-armor mini-tank. “It’d be nice to see some Abrams about now,” he said, remembering the power of American ingenuity. “Those tanks could whoop some serious–” Darrick was interrupted by some movement he saw in the visual field of his binoculars. “Marcus? What are you doing?”

  Marcus was moving into the Russian base camp. From where he was sitting, there was no longer any visual on the camp’s invaders. He was painstakingly moving from cover to cover, being careful to move when out of the tower guards’ line of sight. When one tower guard would give his back to Marcus, Marcus would look at the other tower guard and make his move to a place of cover. Doing this, he was able to inch his way toward the repurposed manufacturing warehouse.

  “Where are you going?” Darrick asked, scanning a line of travel from where he moved toward the main building. Darrick heard the roar of Russian vehicles as they fired up and began leaving the area. He scanned for any remaining means of transportation. The convoy didn’t take every vehicle. It appeared that several support trucks were left behind.

  When the last Russian soldier in the convoy was gone from sight, Darrick quietly stood up and began making his way to the closest tower. He did like Marcus had done and waited for the two line-of-sight guards to give their backs to him. When those moments presented themselves, he ran as hard and as fast as he could. When he finally reached the first tower, he made his way up the ladder. Now, the ladder ran straight up the middle of the tower to a hatch in the center of the tower’s floor. To get in meant making himself known to the tower guard. This presented a problem for Darrick, especially if the tower hatch was secured from inside the tower. It was a risk he had to take.

  One of the Russian tower guards was walking his route around the inner perimeter of his tower when he spotted Darrick climbing the ladder. He knew immediately by the lack of Russian military garb that he wasn’t one of his comrades. Instead of communicating the enemy’s presence to his fellow tower guard, he sighted his rifle on the intruder. Neither Darrick nor his respective tower guard knew what was happening.

  “Easy prey,” the Russian marksman said in his native tongue. He had Darrick dead to rights, with his finger placing more and more pressure on the trigger, when a shot finally rang out.

  Darrick heard the loud bang and turned his attention to the source. Marcus had just shot the tower guard who was aiming his gun at Darrick. Darrick knew his tower guard was now distracted, so he took the opportunity to push the hatch open.

  Thank God. It’s unlocked.

  The tower guard was looking through the scope of his rifle for the shooter, but couldn’t find him. He continuously scanned the area, giving Darrick enough time to climb into the tower and sneak up behind him. Taking the knife from his mouth, Darrick grabbed the man by the neck and lowered his body weight, pulling him to the floor of the tower. Once grounded, he slit his throat and waited for the man to stop fighting. Now covered in blood, Darrick picked up the soldier’s rifle and sighted on the tower guard to the
front northeast of the camp. Marcus peeked up to see Darrick in charge.

  Oh yeah! Marcus thought, pointing his rifle at the tower guard in the front southeast tower. Two shots rang out about two seconds apart, each landing their mark.

  The sounds of Russian rantings were heard from near Marcus’s position. Darrick heard them, too. Since Darrick had the high ground, Marcus took cover and hid himself. Darrick scanned the area and spotted two Russian sentries. One was running for the comm devices. Darrick placed his hand on the bolt handle and ejected his previous shot’s brass and chambered another 7.62 mm round. He pulled the trigger and shot the soldier as soon as he keyed the mic. The other soldier saw his comrade die. He turned to run away, but Marcus emerged from his position to surprise the sentry. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the American was already aiming down his sights at him.

  “Hold your fire,” Marcus heard over his radio. It was Darrick. He wanted him to spare the soldier for some reason. Being a good friend, Marcus held his finger on the trigger for safety’s sake, but spared the Russian’s life.

  Within moments, Darrick came running. “We can extract some information from him.”

  “I figured as much,” Marcus said. “Let’s get to work on him.”

  Pontybridge

  The circle of cheering Enclave members opened at one section of the gathering to reveal a man dragging out the body of what used to be a train-station sentry. At the center of the circle, a survivor stood – alone. Covered in cuts given to him by the knife that lay at his feet, the man had won his fight and earned the right to join the ranks of the Enclave. He dropped the knife and looked to Rueben for permission to join the group. Rueben nodded and the man joined the formation of Red Circle survivors. Each observer of the Red Circle had earned their membership. Never again would a member of the circle have to participate in a cleansing ritual.

  Rueben stood there, in the midst of the members of the Red Circle, with his arms partially crossed and a proud smile on his face. It was the one place he could stand without a handkerchief to cover his face. He knew each man and woman to his left and right were strong. Each one had survived a cleanse and proved their strength. There were times, however, Rueben was forced to cover his face again. During each round, before the weak could be cleansed, Rueben would cover his nose and mouth. But, for now, Rueben was free to breathe. A loser lay dead. The weak had been purged.

  The loser’s body was lifted by two men, carried out of the circle, and tossed into one of the train cars that lined the property, joining the previous four losers.

  The next two men in line to fight were Clint and Allen. The two of them, along with Devin, were longtime friends. The men were lined up in twos just outside the crowd. Under threat of death, each of them were under heavy guard and given instructions to fight for their right to survive or die now. To the men of Pontybridge, they felt that fighting for their survival at least gave them a shot at life; refusing meant certain death. Each time a fight ended, the next two men standing in line were thrust into the midst of the circle.

  Clint looked to Allen. “Remember the agreement,” he said to his lifelong friend.

  Allen looked back. “I won’t forget. I won’t kill you. I’ll stick you just under the kidney.”

  Clint nodded in agreement.

  After Clint’s nod to Allen, the back of the circle opened up and the two of them were pushed in. The circle closed again, hiding them from the view of those yet to be inducted into the rite of pass

  age.

  Clint and Allen each looked down at their instruments of death. The blood-covered knives lay there mixed with dirt and debris. They knelt down and selected their respective blades.

  “Begin,” Rueben shouted.

  The two men began dancing around the arena, knives in hand. Their feet shuffled around the ground as they lowered their centers of gravity, giving the illusion that they were each engaged in defensive and offensive posturing.

  Allen was beyond nervous. His concern was that he’d miss the mark and accidentally kill Clint. It was something he didn’t think he could live with. He was watching his parry partner carefully as Clint set himself up to take a feigned swipe at Allen. Allen watched closely, waiting for his opening. Clint took a swipe at him, catching Allen in the jaw with a closed-fist punch.

  Okay, that hurt, Allen thought. Thank God it was just a punch and not a stab.

  As they parried around the arena, Clint punched Allen two more times. The punches seemed to be getting harder each time. Allen began to wonder if Clint was changing the plan on him. Surely not. He would have stuck me by now.

  Rueben was watching closely and could tell this fight was different than the others. This one seemed staged – rehearsed, almost. Quite a bit different than the previous matches, which were quite a bit more aggressive. The thought to intercede and have each of the men killed for insolence was entering his mind.

  Rueben was right. The men were putting on a show to make it look real. Allen was under the impression that Clint was trying a little bit harder than he was to play a convincing role. It wasn’t working. As the two men circled one another, Allen looked at Rueben, the man who was calling the shots. A handkerchief covered his nose and mouth, but he could see the look in his eyes. He’s not convinced. Allen found his opening and lunged forward with his blade, catching Clint just under the kidney.

  Clint took the shot. The pain pierced his abdomen. A pain shot up his spine, as if a nerve had been sliced. Allen pulled him tight. Instead of stabbing him back, he dropped his knife.

  Rueben could see through the deception. He waited them out to see what would happen next.

  Clint dropped to one knee, and Allen pushed him to the ground. Standing there amidst the Red Circle, Allen didn’t know what came next. He looked to Rueben and waited for him to formally induct him into membership. Rueben, not being fooled by their demonstration, took a deep breath and then held it, dropping the handkerchief from his face.

  “Finish him.”

  Rueben covered his face again, letting out his breath.

  Allen looked down at Clint, who was lying motionless on the ground. Clint gave it his best, but all the action elevated his heart rate and increased his breathing. It was impossible to fake his own death. Allen looked back at Rueben, but the look in Rueben’s eyes said everything. He wasn’t about to repeat himself. The words kept ringing in Allen’s ears. “Finish him.” He couldn’t do it. Allen dropped the blade by Clint’s feet.

  Rueben sighed and stepped into the circle. The back of the arena opened wide, revealing the rest of the contenders. Devin stood there. He was in line next to a man he knew – a man by the name of Todd Weston. They weren’t particularly friends, but they were associates and had been for the last year. The circle opened for one reason and one reason only – to demonstrate what happened when a contender in the Red Circle didn’t comply.

  Rueben walked over to the knife that Allen dropped and picked it up. He wasted no time stabbing Allen in the chest. Not once, but three times. While Allen’s mind was busy trying to compute what just happened, Rueben walked around behind him and cut his throat open from ear to ear. The instant loss of blood dropped Allen to his knees. The arterial spray gushed out several feet, subsiding slowly until he fell by Clint’s face.

  Rueben dropped the knife.

  Clint heard the sounds of Allen’s death, but was too fearful to fight back. Instead, he lay there silently, hoping with an impossible hope he’d survive the ordeal.

  Rueben looked back at the two columns of contenders. He made eye contact with Devin. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Devin.”

  “Devin, come in here and finish this.”

  Devin had already made peace with the fact that he was going to have to kill Todd. Looking at Clint lying there on the ground, helpless, and knowing that he had to kill him was beyond anything he ever imagined he could be capable of doing.

  Devin stepped into the arena.

  The back
of the circle closed and Rueben stepped out.

  Clint heard everything that was being said. His eyes were shut, but he knew Allen’s body was lying near him. He was about to die at the hands of a friend. No such deal was made with Devin. He was afraid. Afraid of what might happen to him if he continued to lie prostrate. He would surely die. What do I do?

  Devin walked over by Clint and reached down to grab the blade that killed Allen. That was when it happened.

  Clint grabbed the other blade, which was already near his hand, and stabbed Devin violently in the chest, not once, but three times, perfectly mimicking Rueben’s attack on Allen. He wanted to cry, but he knew he was staring in the face of life and death. It was a defining moment for Clint. Be strong or be dead.

  Devin looked up into Clint’s eyes. He saw the face of his friend turned murderer. Clint never spoke a word. He just watched Devin’s eyes as life faded from his being. There was a sense of understanding in the last moments of Devin’s life – almost a peace that Devin was glad to be dying at the hand of a friend. The look Devin gave him would change his life forever.

  A heavy sinking feeling filled Clint’s chest the moment Devin fell at his feet.

  Rueben was shocked. He let down his guard to breathe freely. He was wrong about the man in the arena. It was smart to feign his death and wait for the moment to strike and arise victorious.

  “You,” Rueben called out.

  Clint looked at Rueben. He wanted to kill him. The heavy sinking feeling in his chest turned to rage and hate. He controlled himself.

  “What’s your name?” Rueben asked.

  “My name is Clint.”